Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone

The Lady’s sitting room was both intimate and open. She’d tied back the curtains on her balcony to let in the bright spring sun, while the closed doors kept the noises of the city confined to the outside. This time, she made certain her door was locked. There would be no unwelcome guests here.

She set a tea kettle on to boil, her back to him. Aaron took a seat at the table. The chair was backed by wooden rails carved into decorative lines; the seat was cushioned plainly. By the standards of a duchess, it fell far below extravagant.

He had lived at the castle for the better part of a year now. In that time, the Lady had never acted the part of her station. Her apartments, her clothes, her manners were all plainer than the other nobles he’d seen. Not unrefined, but not gilded: it was the difference between an ornament of gold, and a finely wrought dagger. The only one he’d heard speak her name was the former king.

Addie, he’d called her, with real warmth in his voice. The Lady Adelaide.

This was Duke Sung’s wife, who never once showed an inclination to meet with her noble husband. Rather the opposite, in fact. This was the woman who’d been pleased at the thought that Markus would keep her company over the winter, even though she wasn’t his real mother. The woman who’d never realized that the boy she spoke to was already dead.

To be fair, neither had his father. Was Aaron just that good at being Markus, or had Markus been that bad at being himself?

The water came to a boil. The Lady set the tea leaves in to steep, and placed the pot in the center of the table. She sat with her elbows lightly resting on the wood, her hands folded under her chin.

“I would like for you to explain,” she said, “just what you were doing back there.”

He didn’t think he’d ever heard anything quite so dangerous as those words. The tea pot steamed quietly between them as he searched for reply. Something that Markus would say. Something that wouldn’t give him away. For once, he wished the boy’s Death were here to nag at him.

“You don’t approve?” Aaron stalled. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs in the most unconcerned pose he could muster.

“Were we not in agreement?” she asked, her head tilted almost coyly. “It seemed to me that we were. That certain elements of this were, in fact, your own suggestion. If I was mistaken, if you have had some stunning insight into the situation, then please, elucidate me.”

He didn’t particularly know what “elucidate” meant, but he could guess: something along the lines of “Explain yourself. Now.”

“Just what do you think we’ve lost?” he asked.

“Niall’s head comes to mind,” she replied. “As touching as this sudden concern for your father’s well being is.”

“I can say with all honesty,” Aaron replied, “that I care for him about as much as for a total stranger.”

“Then why? If you had not spoken, we would be setting the date of his execution instead of debating who is to be on this investigation committee of yours.” She leaned back in her chair. “Twins protect us from politics.”

He could not help it: as Markus, as Aaron, his lips twitched. “Oh yes. Forbid that you should be involved in anything political.”

She scowled, but there was a certain fondness to her eyes as she did. “You know what I mean. This feather-smoothing is so…” She flicked her fingers, as if to cast off water. “I prefer to leave the appearance of matters to others. It’s the heart of things that interests me.”

“Really,” Aaron said.

“Really.” And her eyes narrowed, though there was a playfulness to her now. “And so you are a member of the new king’s council, and if I did not know you better, I could swear to a kirin that you had not wanted it. I cannot help but notice how that balances things for our family: the duke dishonored, yet his son raised to a position of highest esteem. On the very same day, no less.”

“It’s Aaron who’s esteemed,” he pointed out. “And the council sworn to silence.”

This time, her lips nearly formed the smile that lurked behind them. “And with the council sworn to silence, all the greater speed at which everyone of import will know the truth.”

…He hadn’t thought of that. For some naive reason, he had honestly believed the name “Markus” would not leave that room. And why: because the king had ordered it so?

“What else, then?” she asked.

What do you mean?—That would sound too uninformed. He said, instead: “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” and he lifted one eyebrow as he did, as if he expected anyone of even marginal intellect to uncover such trivial matters on their own. She was smart: she would figure it out for him.

“A member of the council,” she said, leaning forward again, her arms crossed on the table. “But you could have had that at any time. Perhaps not so quickly, but you’ve certainly done your work on Orin. It’s clear to everyone that he trusts you, and a new king remembers best those who stood with him early. You could have had the same appointment in a few month’s time, and it is not worth what was lost. So what else?”

This time, it was not a question posed to him, but to herself.

“Being made a council member was a mere side-effect to your aim, then. You looked so honest in your surprise because you were surprised. So what then is gained by this investigation of yours?” She paused in her thoughts.

And suddenly, Aaron saw a reason. If he was right. He really, really hoped he was not right.

“What else will they investigate, as they look into the king’s death?” he asked, feeling oddly numb. When she smiled, he knew.

“Orin. Of course. They’ll look into the deaths of his men, and find that Niall spoke the truth. They’ll still find your father guilty of killing the king, but they’ll be handed a reason for it. One that will satisfy even the southerners. The foolish northern king, who would not kill his doppelgänger son. The steadfast southern duke, who did what he must to protect our Last Reign, even though he knew it would mean his own death. A true blood noble. They’ll make folktales of him, just as they do for your sister.”

He lifted his eyebrow a hair higher, egging her on; he held his broken wrist pressed over his stomach as it churned sickly. It was never Orin she wanted to save. She only cared that an O’Shea sat the throne, and she had two of her own.

“And with Orin revealed,” she continued, “It will be Connor next in line, with the southern lords insisting on Adelaide as regent.” She smiled. “She’ll be harder to convince, of course. But then, she’ll only reign until Connor is of age, and he’ll be a boy missing his brother and father. You’re so much closer to him in age than your sister is. You’ll be great friends, I’m sure.”

“We already are.” It wasn’t even a lie. Not great friends, perhaps, but the boy—the new crown prince, the future king—had become a regular at his practice sessions with Rose. It would be easy to build on that, to turn it into true trust.

Maybe the Lady was no fool, after all, for thinking him to be Markus. Looking at it from the outside, it almost seemed as though he’d planned this from the start: in the space of a few months, he’d gone from street rat to councilman, a friend to the entire royal family. A young man with the ears of both the Late Wake’s leader and the Iron Captain’s treasured grandson, Lochlann.

Had this been his Death’s plan?

All it had taken, after all, was death: Markus, Gwen, the king. The four tails, even. How much of that would have happened if Markus had taken another street that night? Things had changed here, changed because he’d lived, and he didn’t know what.

“We have such high hopes for you, Aaron,” the four-tailed Death had said. “Do not disappoint us.”

Perhaps his Death wasn’t alone in planning things.

The Lady wanted her husband dead. She did not hesitate to admit it. Admit, also, that it had been arranged in advance. And why was the duke’s head in danger to begin with? Because he’d killed the king.

But why would he kill the king? Because he wanted Orin dead, and the king stood in the way? The assassination attempt made sense, in that light—Orin might be a doppel, and Rose a changeling; to a noble who still held to the old ways, Connor was the only real heir to His Majesty’s line. If the Kindly Souls had succeeded that night, there would have been no petition. The king would yet live. As a first attempt at solving the problem, it made sense—Orin and Rose’s deaths would be a national tragedy, leaving both their memories and the throne unsullied. When the king died of his illness, the duke would be waiting to quietly assume his place as regent, keeping the kingdom safe.

It made sense. Such perfect sense. His own people wouldn’t even blame him for it, in the end. Duke Sung had every reason to act as he did, and he’d made no excuses for himself at his trial. An honorable man forced to dishonorable action for the sake of his country.

So how had the Lady known that the king would die while her husband was here?

The tea still steeped in its pot. A pity. His dry throat could use a drink, but boiling water was as much use to him as the waterfall painting above the hearth.

There were other things that made perfect sense. For instance, a name: Aaron. A boy who the Raffertys had stabbed one chill autumn night, on the eve of the harvest fair.

“Aaron,” he said. “Aaron of no particular last name. What did you mean when you said that my father’s indiscretions didn’t end in one act?”

He remembered that word. It wasn’t a word one heard often.

Her gaze was suddenly piercing; his heart skipped a measure, even as he held his breath in tight rein. In and out: steady, even. She seemed to consider something, consider him, before she answered.

“I should have told you sooner, but it… was not a topic I was ready to discuss, when you first arrived. My men saw to him. There was no sense leaving a loose thread dangling so. I’m sorry; this is no way to find out about a brother. You’ve met the company he kept—you know what he was. Not even your father would claim that one as blood. The succession is going to be murky enough without a street rat chewing at our family’s banners.”

She tucked a strand of gold behind her ear. “I did not intend for you to know. I realize that doesn’t change what I did, but for what it is worth: I did not mean to hurt you with this. Ignorance was the kindness I’d intended.”

She’d had him killed. Not the Raffertys. This woman in front of him: she’d had him killed.

“Do you know much about him?” Aaron asked. “Does he have family we need to worry about? Was his mother the same as mine?”

Something in her posture seemed to relax. She waved her hand in fleeting dismissal. “No, and definitely no. He was just a dull thing, really. He didn’t know power when he held it, and he won’t miss life now that it’s gone.”

A silence squeezed into the room, filling every nook and cranny. Filling his lungs, until he had to concentrate just to keep breathing. Apparently the Lady did not feel the same.

“Oh,” she said. “The tea is ready.”

She poured for both of them, setting the cup in front of him in as civilized a manner as anyone could please. There it steamed in its porcelain cup. He’d never drunk from anything so refined in Twokins.

In Twokins, he’d known the face of everyone who wanted him dead. He’d never imagined that someone sitting in a castle might order him killed for things he’d never known.

He’d never thought himself naive when it came to murder. He knew better, now. He was grateful for the lesson.

There was only the one thing left to confirm. What good it would do, he did not know; he felt like the kirin from that old kingdom tale, asking the fox if it spoke truth. The answer she gave wouldn’t change what she’d already done.

“Why doesn’t my father say anything? He must suspect it.” Aaron asked, the fingers of his good hand wrapped around his cup. It was not until he saw her touch her own and pull away that he realized he was being scalded; but even when he moved his hand, he felt no different. Not hot, not cold. Not particularly anything. “That you killed the king.”

She laughed. She laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

“Oh, Markus. You’re a smart boy, but still so young. The thing to remember about your father is that his love runs deep. He loves the people of Three Havens, and he protects them; he loves Last Reign, such that he would risk everything to save it. And above all, he loves me.” She raised her cup to her smiling lips, and blew a cooling breath across the tea.

He laughed, too. He could not help it: he laughed until his sides hurt more than his wrist, until his tea shook on its saucer. When she raised an eyebrow, all he could do was wave her off. He couldn’t have put it into words, anyway. Not very well. It was only this: that if this was what families were like, he was glad he’d never had one.

This woman. She had ordered him dead, without knowing anything about him; ordered him dead, because he might one day inconvenience her. She’d ordered him dead, and killed her own son, instead. Never mind that they hadn’t been connected by blood: in heart and mind, Markus was her son.

Aaron realized that something heavy had slipped from his shoulders. It wasn’t that he was alive because Markus had died in his place. Markus and his mother had plotted, and they had failed, and Aaron was still alive at the end of it. That was a different thing entirely. When an enemy stabs himself, he earned it. Remorse was for the innocent, and no one in this room was that.

Well. She wanted Markus? He would be Markus, then. He would be Markus until Aaron was safe, and his enemies better friends with their own Deaths.